He took a puff from his cigar and blew a cloud of blue-gray smoke slowly toward the ceiling. "But if you insist on new data, dear girl, you shall have it. Did you know that your mother blew up your father's spaceship seventeen years ago?"
Even I perked up my ears at that one. It was a bit of Varden family history that I hadn't been aware of.
"Mother killed Dad?" Nikki laughed shortly. "You lie."
"I admit the charge," chuckled Van Ostrand. "I do. Frequently. Not this time, however. Besides, I didn't say she killed him; I said she blew up his ship, which is quite a different thing. Indeed, my dear, I am happy to say that your father has been alive for these seventeen years and is alive at this very moment."
Nikki looked at him silently for a long moment, then leaned back and closed her eyes. "I don't believe you, of course," she said calmly.
"Of course not," said the fat man. "Why should you? But it's true, nonetheless. You see, your father—"
"Time, boss," interrupted the rodentish little Giles Jackson suddenly, pointing at the clock on the wall.
"So it is," said Van Ostrand. "You are very observant, Giles, my boy." He heaved his ponderous bulk out of the chair into which he had lowered himself and strolled rollingly over to the visiphone. He dialed a number. The screen lit up, but no face appeared. "Yes, Mr. Van Ostrand?" said a voice at the other end.
"Ah, you're there on time, I see," said the fat man. "Very good. We'll synchronize, then, for exactly twenty-five seconds after three. Understood?"
"Twenty-five seconds after three. Yes, sir." There was a click, and the screen faded.